


How to Deck the Hangars, and other Christmas Traditions

by IuvenesCor



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Banter, Christmas, Gen, crack!fic, not even remotely meant to be taken seriously, tree decorating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 17:09:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5506040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IuvenesCor/pseuds/IuvenesCor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[In another universe where Simmons never went off to space and Christmas actually happens between seasons Two and Three, Phil realizes that he is the boss of actual children.]</p>
<p>[Sort of.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to Deck the Hangars, and other Christmas Traditions

**Author's Note:**

> The inspiration for this one is a little hard to explain... but maybe it's better to just let this mess of silliness speak for itself.
> 
> Dedicated to truthtakestime and DinerGuy, who both gave this a once-over and were kind enough to not call me crazy to my face.

The first words to come out of Phil Coulson’s mouth were: “Agents, _what the hell?_ ”

 

From someone like Hunter, even from Daisy, he could imagine a stunt like this being pulled. But for even his sane agents – really, Mack and Morse?— to be tangled up in this mess, it made a very bizarre scenario.

 

And they were _literally_ tangled up in it— it being a slew of tinsel and lights and ornaments _and was that popcorn garland?_

Phil sighed. He was the boss of actual children. Looks were merely there to deceive: in reality, completely contradictory to their physical appearances, the surrounding agents were honest five year olds. This visual in front of him right now?

                

Proved it.

 

Initially, none of his actual children agents seemed able to speak, short of Simmons.

 

“Christmas?” she weakly chirped. “Sir.”

 

“I get that. What I don’t get, for one, is why my hangar, the one all my agents use for official SHIELD business, has morphed into Santa’s Workshop.”

 

Daisy lifted an eyebrow. “It’s not _that_ bad.”

 

In perfect unison, Phil and May shared the most doubting Look the world has ever known. “It _is_ ,” replied the latter, “that bad.”

 

“Well, we aren’t tearing this tree down now.”

 

“I didn’t mean to suggest you have to, Daisy.” Phil shrugged just casually enough to make all of his not-May subordinates flinch in a moment of concern. (Except Mack. He wasn’t as easy to shake— damn his badass demeanor.) “If you’ve been working so hard at this for…?”

 

“Three hours,” Fitz supplied.

 

“Wow, seriously? Three hours?”

 

“Most of it nitpicking over the proper layout,” clarified Simmons.

 

Taking their enthusiasm (or maybe insanity was a more fitting term?) with a grain of salt, Phil could merely wave a hand in what he figured was a vaguely accepting gesture. “Then I’d hate to make all the time you spent a total waste.” He tried for another hand signal indicative of his curiosity. (Not sure that one worked, but he had to go with it.) “There’s just one other thing. May, you’re wondering what I’m wondering, right?”

 

His second in command made a face: one that implied she wanted to say “duh” on the outside and “stop the madness now because God forbid I start cracking a smile” on the inside. But flatly she murmured, “Oh yeah.”

 

“And what’s that?” This came from Morse, who seemed somewhere between willing participant and helpless victim in this holiday house-dressing. (Or, hangar-dressing. Semantics.)

 

There was a pause, and a lot of glancing around at everyone, for dramatic effect.

 

“Why not use ladders?”

 

Simmons looked down at Daisy. Daisy looked down at Mack. Mack looked out to Phil and May with eyes that said _I don’t have a damn clue_.

In the self-same moment, on the opposite side of the tree, Fitz looked down at Hunter, Morse looked sideways at Hunter, and Hunter himself looked just plain uncomfortable being a human stepladder-slash-chair for their resident Scot.

 

“I mean,” Phil continued, “this whole stacking on each other thing looks a little unnecessary.”

 

“We— didn’t want to make a big scene…” Hunter eventually stuttered, discomfort increasing, judging by his “could be confused for mild constipation” face.

 

May snorted. “Not making a scene would include not decorating a fifteen foot Christmas tree at 2 AM.”

 

“Well, you should note that I said not a _big_ scene.”

 

“Yeah,” nodded Morse, lacking much of a convincing tone. “This just qualifies as a moderately sized scene.”

 

Fitz looked a bit petulant. “Hey, aren’t you supposed to be on our side?”

 

“Did I say I was taking sides?”

 

“Enough.” Phil sighed, much like he had at the start of this discovery. “Just finish what you’re doing, don’t break any arms, and ask Santa Claus for a quiet day come morning because the last thing we need is half-awake agents doing anything even kind of connected to the safety of our current civilized world.”

 

“And if you track any tinsel through the base,” threatened May (gleefully, one could assume), “I will personally incapacitate each and every one of you.”

 

Their agents nodded obediently, solidifying that particular “actually five year olds” image for everyone (except, again, Mack— who wore a particularly self-satisfied, told-you-so expression for all his teammates.) May turned and walked back out of the hangar, with Phil following soon after.

 

“It looks really good,” he noted, well out of ear-shot.

 

Nodding, May smirked dryly. “That’s the most coordinated I’ve seen them in five weeks.”

 

They walked on through the base in a brief, pleased silence.

 

“So, May, I thought you loved tinsel?”

 

There was a wicked twitch in that grin of hers. “I _do_.”

 

Phil smiled. “Definitely getting coal in this year’s stocking.”

 

“You bet.”

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and all that jazz. ;)


End file.
